From the Sidelines
by Riandra
Summary: It's the quiet ones you have to watch... Two unassuming residents of Baker Street reveal their true mettle during a case.


Journal of Dr. David Q. Dawson, 221B Baker Street.

Had Mrs. Judson not been visiting her sister that fateful evening in October, then tragedy could well have struck our beloved London in the worst possible way.

It had been a pleasant enough evening to begin with, Basil mercifully choosing to serenade me with his violin, instead of using it to impersonate a pack of alley cats, as he was all too wont to do when possessed by boredom in between cases. To thank him for the rare treat, I had willingly volunteered to venture out from the flat into Mrs. Hudson's spotless kitchen, in search of a late supper. Normally, such an expedition would have been undertaken by our own estimable landlady, but as I have previously stated, she had gone to visit her sister on the far side of New Regent's Park, insisting that Toby, Mr. Holmes' basset hound, be her escort and transport. She would not be back until the next afternoon; thus, we were forced to fend for ourselves temporarily.

The clock had recently struck nine, and I had just reached the pantry undetected, when the doorbell of 221B pealed. It gave me quite a start, not to mention Mrs. Hudson, who had been dozing at the kitchen table over the latest penny dreadful, to which she was secretly (or so she believed!) addicted. Jumping up and straightening her apron, she bustled out of the kitchen and down the hall. Quite forgetting my own errand in my curiosity as to who could be calling at this time of night, I hurried across the flagstones and peered around the edge of the door in time to see Mrs. Hudson opening the front door. From my poor vantage point, I could see nothing of the callers, but the voices drifting down the hall told me there were definitely at least two of them, both male, and from the polite but firm tones one could safely surmise they were in haste to consult Mr. Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson allowed the two visitors inside, admonishing them both to wipe their feet, then led the way upstairs. Awestruck, I did my best to apply my friend's methods in deducing what I could about the new arrivals before they disappeared from view. After all, I was hardly ever granted the chance to observe a prospective client ahead of the Great Detective himself! I could note little about them, however, as they were still bundled up in overcoats and hats – a little unusual, but perhaps they did not expect to remain long enough to warrant their removal. One was a good deal taller than the other, and seemingly almost as thin as Mr. Holmes, while his compatriot was decidedly well-built; both also had dark hair. That was all I had time to observe, and I wished heartily (not for the first time) that I had Basil's uncanny ability to spot crucial details.

Sighing, I was about to head back to the pantry and discover the quality of this week's Cheshire, when I was startled once again by a sudden noise. This time, however, it came from the back passage: the splintering creak of a locked door being forced open with a crowbar, a sound I had become most familiar with during my residence in Baker Street! Filled with alarm, I dashed for the shelter of the table, concealing myself as best I could behind the nearest leg. The intruder entered the house swiftly and silently; as he emerged from the passage into the kitchen, my first shocked thought was that Dr. Watson had taken to practising housebreaking, until I remembered the next moment that he was also upstairs with Mr. Holmes. The stranger's likeness to my human colleague was uncanny, in features and build. I was unable to fathom the significance of such a likeness at that moment, though, especially since there were far more important matters at hand! Whoever this man was, he and his other two accomplices – for there could be no doubt of that, at least – clearly had some kind of foul play in mind.

My thoughts raced; how was I to sound the alarm without giving myself away? I knew Basil would have gone up to the human sitting room the moment the doorbell rang, and was probably wondering why I still hadn't joined him, unless he had also deduced that the two 'clients' were not as they first appeared. Heaven only knew what was happening in the sitting room at this moment... I could smell that the Watson lookalike was readying a chloroform pad at the kitchen table – no mistaking that pungent odour! – and an instant later, Mrs. Hudson's dignified footsteps sounded on the upper landing and started to descend the stairs. The intruder hid himself behind the kitchen door, pad in hand, his set expression sending a chill down my spine to the very tip of my tail. Now there was no doubt in my mind as to what I had to do; laws of Nature be damned, if obeying them meant standing by when any of my comrades was in danger, animal or human!

Taking a deep breath, I gathered myself and dashed out from under the table, across the floor to where Mrs Hudson's broom leant against the wall next to a hanging row of saucepans. I scurried halfway up the broom handle, then still clinging to the stick, threw myself sideways, tipping the broom enough that the handle clattered against the nearest pot. I had briefly considered running out into the hall to warn Mrs. Hudson, but as that would have most likely sent the poor woman into hysterics, this seemed much the better option – but had it worked? Dropping back down to the floor, I saw with grim satisfaction that the thug behind the door had only just kept from jumping at the sudden noise, and now looked much more uncertain than he had a moment ago – good.

Mrs. Hudson's steps slowed for a moment, but my heart sank as they picked up pace again. "Ginger? You naughty cat, are you at the butter churn again?" came the landlady's voice, filling me with bewilderment. _Ginger_? We didn't have a cat, Toby would have made short work of any that dared set foot in his territory! The next moment, however, I found out what the cunning woman was up to. Thinking he now had a way to put Mrs. Hudson at ease again, the thug opened his mouth and meowed faintly... completely giving his position away. The landlady, displaying a wonderful agility for a human of her advancing years, threw all her weight against the partly open door, knocking the wind out of her would-be assailant and making him drop the chloroform pad.

Gasping for breath, the thug made a valiant attempt to straighten up, pulling a sap from his coat pocket and lunging after the woman... only to meet a heavy cast-iron skillet coming the other way, Mrs. Hudson having dashed across the room and snatched it up from its usual place on the coal range, swinging the pan like a cricket bat straight at the man's head. There was a muffled clang, followed by a heavy thud as the ruffian dropped to the flagstones like a sack of potatoes.

I barely managed to suppress a cheer, but stiffened again in horror at the sound of more footsteps running up the passage to the kitchen. Had the thugs upstairs overpowered Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson? And what the deuce had happened to Basil? Dear heavens, would I ever see my dearest friend again? Then to my immense relief, Sherlock Holmes himself burst into the room, with Dr. Watson hard on his heels, followed by their two 'clients', all four carrying pistols, and all wearing combined looks of profound thankfulness and astonishment at the sight of Mrs. Hudson standing over the unconscious intruder, frying pan still in hand.

"Really, Mr. Holmes, what kind of stakeout do you call this?" the woman asked sternly, her expression of profound disapproval belied slightly by her twinkling eyes. "I have quite enough to do cleaning up after you and the Doctor as it is! If apprehending criminals is to become a part of my services, I shall have to seriously consider doubling the rent!" She placed the skillet carefully back on the stovetop, then paused. "And that reminds me, Mr. Holmes, the back door is doubtless in sad need of repair. I shall add the locksmith's bill to your share of the rent at the end of the week. Goodnight, gentlemen." Mrs. Hudson bobbed a curtsey to the four dumbfounded men, then glided serenely away down the back passage to her own room.

I sagged weakly against the wainscot, mind reeling, trying to make sense of all I had witnessed, then suddenly became aware of a presence at my side. Basil took me gently by the elbow and led me back to our own flat, his face its usual mask, and his black eyes gleaming, with what emotion I couldn't tell. Neither of us made any sound until we were safely ensconced once more in the sitting room, then Basil thrust me kindly down into my usual chair before the fire and collapsed into his own, body now starting to shake with helpless laughter. Although still decidedly confused as to the meaning of recent events, his merriment was infectious, as was the memory of the thunderstruck expressions of Mr. Holmes and his colleagues, and I gave myself up to it willingly, allowing the last of the tension in me to evaporate in the warmth of the moment.

"It's really quite simple, Dawson," Basil explained as we sipped our tea beside the glowing embers. "No doubt you've already realised that those 'clients' that Mrs. Hudson admitted were actually plain-clothes Yarders. The man who broke in through the back door was an out-of-work actor, Silas Crosby, whom Mr. Holmes proved guilty of various petty swindles a few years ago. Mr. Holmes received word from one of his contacts last week that Crosby was out of gaol, and intent on revenging himself on the man who had put him behind bars. The snare was set, as you saw, but sadly, even the Master is only human..." Basil set his teacup down and leant forward in his chair, gazing at me solemnly. "If it had not been for your quick thinking, old boy, it is possible we might never have seen Mrs. Hudson alive again." A proud smile blossomed on his face, softening his sharp features. "Well done, my dear fellow – well done, indeed."

It is not for me to say whether Basil was correct in his assessment – after all, the good woman herself proved, and still proves, a force to be reckoned with, to which Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson can attest daily. One thing is certain, however: our losing Mrs. Hudson would have been a most severe blow, one that would have ripped the very heart out of Baker Street, and therefore the world. For as my human colleague is fond of saying, wherever there is a Great Detective, champion of justice, there must also be a stout-hearted landlady with a frying pan to take him down a peg or two whenever the need arises...


End file.
